


Loss and Renewal

by Kienova



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kienova/pseuds/Kienova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many times could they endure heartbreak?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss and Renewal

**Author's Note:**

> There seems to be a horrific epidemic going on at my one job right now. This is the product of what happens when you work in funeral service. Apologies.

Hearing that they would never have children was devastating. It destroyed both of them in so many ways. She shied away from him for weeks, still tender from surgery and then unable to even really look at herself in the mirror, not wanting him to touch her. Whenever he tried she either pushed him away, fled the room, or ended up crying, begging him to forgive her for the failures her body had brought them.

It had been hard, but after a month, it got easier. Their kisses grew from quick and chaste to passionate once again, and over time she welcomed him into her arms and her body, arching beneath him once again as he whispered how much he loved her into her ear.

Finding her surrounded by blood was harder. Much harder.

He had only run home to grab a medical journal when he heard the sobbing, the sound resonating through the flat and sending a chill up his spine as he raced up the stairs. She was on the bathroom floor, curled in the corner against the bath, blood staining her skirt and hands, a smeared handprint on the seat of the toilet.

“Shelagh,” he rushed, dropping next to her, grabbing her cheek so that he could check her level of consciousness.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she cried, grabbing at his Oxford with trembling, iron crusted fingers. He tried to shush her, to calm her breathing, hearing how it spiked with her panic, hyperventilating in the stillness of the bathroom. She didn’t stop rambling out apologies, hiccupping through the words. “I was going… I wanted to tell you next week. I thought it would be okay. Oh Patrick, I’m so sorry.” She passed out against him then, lungs struggling too hard to absorb enough oxygen to sustain lucidity. Resting her back against the wall after checking her pulse he realised the blood was coming from between her legs, the deep crimson a small puddle beneath her, streaks on the tiles from where she had scrambled across the room. He swallowed hard, glancing at the basin of the toilet, already knowing what he was going to see there. He closed his eyes, trying to keep the sob that wanted to rip from his chest inside as he carefully got a flannel and cleaned his wife before taking her to their bedroom and laying her on the bed, stripped naked from the stained clothes and wrapped in a fresh nightdress.

He cleaned the bathroom on rote. Removed every trace of blood from the tiles and porcelain, shaking hands holding the box he lined with a flannel, closing away the chapter in their lives that had not even really begun. He didn’t want Angela or Timothy to see. Didn’t want Shelagh to be reminded. But he didn’t know what else to do. He went to the garden, grabbing a shovel and digging, placing the box beneath the soil, covering it, hiding it away, heart breaking with each inch of earth being moved.

It was only when he took the bin bag out to the curb for collection that he lost composure, grabbing onto the wall at the door of the flat and weeping, dropping to his knees.

Miscarriage.

How many times had he told patients he was sorry but that they had lost the child they were carrying? How many stillborns had he delivered? How many parents had he watched fall to pieces from the loss of something so small and yet so big? How could God have granted them such a miracle, only to tear it away from their hands in such a cruel way – a rush of blood and immeasurable agony, both at the time and for the future?

He composed himself as much as he could, telephoning Nonnatus, asking Trixie to look after the children for the night, not telling her why. Not wanting to alarm her. To have people ask questions. To want to offer help. He could not endure the thought of anyone offering condolences to something he had not even known he had. Could not imagine how it would crush his wife to have her friends, her work family, look on her with pity over something he knew she would see as a failure of her body. 

He curled up next to her once he was able to climb the stairs, legs weak, barely holding him up. She only slept for a few more moments before she was roused by her own horror, a scream ripping from her lungs as she sat up, looking around, frantic, until she caught sight of her husband’s shattered expression. She fell into him almost instantly, apologising again while he breathed his own heartbreak into her ear, kissing her temple, her cheek, her eyelids, his tears mingling with her own. She cried the entire evening and well into the night, holding him, desperate to cling to someone until she sobbed herself into a fitful slumber.

She tried to go back to normal the next day. Not telling the children what happened. Not telling anyone. He worried at that. Worried that she was not dealing with the loss of a child; their child – not yet old enough to have been felt by a hand on her belly, but old enough that she knew it was there. That she knew what they had lost the moment she started bleeding. He tried to talk to her about it, but she pushed him away, refusing. He let her for nearly a week, until his own sorrow and anger broke through the barrier he had carefully built.

“Shelagh, we lost a baby!” he boomed when he tried to talk to her the following Saturday, the children outside at the park, his temper no longer controlled. She rounded on him with tears already gathering in his eyes.

“I know that!” she screamed, grabbing the back of the sofa to steady herself. “I knew I was pregnant. I wanted to wait to tell you. I had wanted to surprise you. And then I just… there was so much blood and it _hurt_ Patrick. I thought I was dying and all I could think about was that tiny baby and then… to see…” she couldn’t finish her sentence, running to the sink to throw up, her shoulders shaking through the tears and retching as he came to stand behind her, rubbing between her shoulder blades. “I can’t do that again,” she coughed.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, pulling her into a hug once she was standing again, letting her melt into his chest. He couldn’t find it in himself to push her to talk about it again after that. He hoped desperately that she was speaking to Sister Julienne about it, but he couldn’t ask, not wanting to cause her anymore pain.

She didn’t let him touch her for months. He didn’t even try. A chaste kiss, a small hug, holding her as she slept, was all he allowed himself to ask for. He couldn’t push her in this. Couldn’t demand physical affection when he knew she was still hurting so much for a baby that was lost before it truly lived. The only reminder being the simple cross he placed into the ground over the grave he had dug, Shelagh’s tears staining the dirt as she placed a single rose next to the marker. Timothy never asked, sensing that something had happened, but not wanting to disrupt the fragile state of the house with questions.

It was Easter Sunday when she finally came to him, tears in her eyes, telling him she missed him. Missed them. That her heart was still mending, that it would always have a piece missing. He promised her he wouldn’t press for more than she was willing to give. That he would never ask anything of her that she did not want to share with him. They both cried as they made love, their tears flowing together as he kissed her tenderly, holding her as their hearts slowed, curled beneath the blankets and around each other.

When she started getting sick a month later, she sobbed, curling in on herself and refusing to move from their bed. He tried to convince her that things would be all right. That it might be nothing. But she screamed at him, telling him that it would happen again, that she couldn’t go through the pain of losing another child. He tried for two days on his own before he called Sister Julienne. The older woman came immediately, a sorrow filled look on her face as she slipped into the bedroom, leaving him alone in the hall to pace, his heart hammering beneath his ribs at the fear that he shared with his wife.

What if there was something wrong? What if it did happen again? He would never blame it on Shelagh, he knew that she had more likely been more vigilant than any other woman the last time, but he couldn’t help but wonder if her body could not handle the strain – that it was the tuberculosis, the disease long banished from her chest, that was taking away their chance of a child yet again. It was hours before Sister Julienne came back out of the bedroom, her expression tired, eyes red rimmed as she accepted the cup of tea he made her, sitting heavily on the sofa.

“I am so sorry for everything you have both been through,” she whispered, not meeting his eye, her gaze focused on her teacup. “She is so fearful that this is a punishment from God. For leaving the Order. For not being good enough. I have tried to convince her otherwise, that this time will be different than when she lost the last baby, but she is so scared,” Sister Julienne breathed.

“What do I do?” Patrick questioned, finally admitting how much he was at a loss since he had found Shelagh on the floor all those months ago.

“Tell her you love her. Be there for her. Pray,” Sister Julienne answered, squeezing his shoulder before she took her leave from the house.

The next seven months passed in agonizing slowness. Shelagh spent much of the time in bed, terrified that she would harm herself or the baby. Patrick spent the time worrying about them both, trying to care for Angela and Timothy with as much efficiency as his wife and failing miserably, allowing Patsy and Delia to assist him when he admitted defeat. He was hesitant the entire time, so gentle when he touched his wife as she slept beside him, his hand on her belly as it grew, the baby kicking against his palm.

When she went into labour on a cold November morning, he threw up, nerves filling him as he called for Sister Julienne, hands shaking. He paced the floor for hours, not being allowed in the bedroom, not being allowed to see his wife as she struggled against the agony of contractions. He jumped with Sister Julienne grabbed him by the elbow, saying she needed him, that Shelagh refused to push, her fear overtaking her. 

He held her hand, pressing their foreheads together, eyes closed as he whispered to her.

“I love you. You can do this. It will be all right. I will be here for you no matter what. I love you.”

A constant litany, repeated over and over, his heart aching at the cries that escaped his wife as her body tensed, tears pouring down her face.

“I can’t do this,” Shelagh whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t... I don’t want to... to have a... a... dead –” she couldn’t even manage to finish the sentence.

“Shhh, this isn’t like last time Shelagh, you can do this, you have to. You could die otherwise,” Patrick said, stroking her hair off her face. Shelagh just shook her head, pressing her cheek into his palm. “Tell me what you need. Tell me what to do to help you through this.” The two paid no heed to the Sister Julienne in that moment, completely wrapped up in the support of one another despite the events that were occurring. Patrick couldn’t help but think about all the possible complications that could still be occurring inside Shelagh’s body, let alone the emotional trauma she was about to endure were there to be any problems. He was terrified that she would hate him after this, that if things went badly, she would never be able to look at him again. Regardless, he didn’t have the heart or ability to leave her. Not when she had begged him to stay and was in this position because of something he had done.

“My back,” she started, whimpering. “I can’t handle the pain, I feel like my spine is breaking.”

“Get her up on her hands and knees. Support her shoulders and pull her upper body towards you on the bed,” Sister Julienne gently suggested. Patrick nodded, gingerly helping Shelagh maneuver until she was on her hands and knees. She didn’t seem to comprehend her physical vulnerability in the new position, too focused on resting her forehead against his chest as he climbed onto the head of the bed, pulling her tenderly towards him. Her hands were braced on the mattress on either side of his hips, clenching the thin sheet that covered the bed with a ferocity that almost made him ill. Without thinking too much about it he raised one of his hands to the small of her back, rubbing the naked skin soothingly and letting the warmth of his palm seep into her flesh.

“You can do this,” he whispered in her ear, bowing his head so that only she could hear him. “I know this is impossible, but if anyone can do this it’s you.”

“Shelagh, I need you to push a little bit for me the next time you feel a surge of pain. Try and push for a count of ten,” Sister Julienne instructed. Patrick could feel Shelagh shaking her head against his chest, even as she let out a sound that was half scream, half sob, bearing down as her knuckles turned white.

“I’ve got you, you can do this,” he encouraged her softly, trying to keep his own emotions under control. He had only ever felt this helpless when she had been diagnosed with tuberculosis and then again when he had found her after the miscarriage. He could feel her tears seeping into his shirt, her body trembling with effort and the muscles of her back clenching tight under his fingertips.

“That’s it, a little more,” Sister Julienne rushed, grabbing for something off the bed. Patrick couldn’t bear to watch, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to Shelagh’s temple.

“I love you,” he whispered, unable to stop himself. He knew the timing was horrible, as it always seemed to be, but he felt the urge to make sure she knew that she was cared for, no matter what was going on. He felt her hiccup against his chest, screaming suddenly.

A piercing wail of a newborn echoed a moment later.

“You have a son,” Sister Julienne said, voice full of tears and laughter. “And he seems to be quite unhappy about being evicted from his nice warm bed.” Shelagh scrambled against the sheets, turning until she could see the baby, her eyes wide as Patrick helped her to move, her arms outstretched until the infant, pink and wriggling, was placed in her hands.

“Hello,” she breathed, voice shaking at the syllables, a finger stroking down the baby’s cheek as Patrick curled against her back, looking over her shoulder at their son, his arm coming up to support Shelagh’s. “Hello Arlo.” He kissed his wife’s temple, watching the infant blink up blearily at them.

When they lay together that night, the baby breathing softly between them on the mattress, he couldn’t help but cry, pulling Shelagh as close to him as he could without harming her or Arlo.

“I love you,” he said, the words catching in his throat. “I love you so much Shelagh.” She smiled, sleepy in the darkness as she cupped his cheek.

“I love you too. Thank you… for everything. I wouldn’t have any of this if it weren’t for you,” she whispered, humming quietly when he kissed her palm before taking her hand and placing it on the baby’s back, tangling his fingers with her as they felt the child breathing beneath them, content in his slumber.

He fell asleep to the thought that although they had been through hell, the feeling of their son in their arms had been worth every misstep and lash from the whip of sorrow that had brought them to that moment.

 


End file.
